


Microcosm

by irisbleufic



Category: Gotham (TV), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Universe, Arkham Asylum, Character Study, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Comedy, Fear, Fear Entities, Fear Entity Alignments, Fear Entity Avatars, Gen, Intrigue, Psychological Drama, Scheming, Secrets, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Suspense, Unethical Experimentation, Vignettes That Will String Together to Form Something Resembling Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: JV: Relationships with family are the only ones I ever had.  They all turned on me.HS: I’m sorry to hear that.  What do you think motivated them to do such a thing?JV: I don’t wanna talk about that, either.  Long story short, somebody told lies about me starting from before I even hit double digits age-wise.  Everyone believed ’em.  Even Mom.HS: Do you feel like your mother shouldn’t have believed?  That she should’ve had your back?JV: Nah, but she sure had the back of the person who always bad-mouthed me.  Story of my life.HS: Did you kill her because of the abuse, or because she took someone else’s word over yours?
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Robinson & Hugo Strange, Gertrude Robinson & Martha Wayne & Thomas Wayne, Hugo Strange & Jerome Valeska, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. The Archivist

Gertrude had teleconferences with the Waynes twice a year. She liked to keep tabs on the Institute’s donors. Otherwise, it was difficult to tell what alignments were holding stable, which were in flux, and which had altogether changed. She also rather liked Thomas and Martha.

This time, when she called, it was their boy instead of the butler who answered the phone.

“Wayne Manor,” Bruce said, confident for a child of twelve. “May I ask who’s speaking?”

“Gertrude Robinson of the Magnus Institute, London. May I speak to one of your parents?”

“I was going to ask if you were a friend of Alfred’s,” Bruce replied. “My mother is here.”

“If you’d be so kind as to get her, I’d truly appreciate it,” Gertrude said sweetly. “I’ll wait.”

“You’re calling long distance. I’ll be quick,” Bruce said, setting down the phone in a rush.

There was the sound of someone else picking up within seconds. “Gertrude, it’s been a while.”

“Longer than six months, yes,” Gertrude sighed. “I do apologize. Business is ticking along.”

“This is Bruce again,” said the boy, out of breath. “Sorry. I’m hanging up in the hall now.”

“My, he’s grown,” Gertrude said admiringly. “You and Thomas have done a bang-up job.”

“You might want to wait until he’s home. It’ll only be a couple of hours. We could call you.”

“Nonsense. You’re as involved in the company as he is. All I have is a small favor to ask.”

Martha exhaled slowly. “If it has anything to do with funding, I’d be happy to do a transfer.”

“Less to do with funding, more to do with staffing,” Gertrude said. “On your side of the pond.”

“I didn’t think the Institute had an outpost here,” said Martha, quizzically. “Has that changed?”

“Arkham Asylum is in a pitiable state,” Gertrude said, unspooling the bait carefully. “It came to my attention via one of our colleagues with an American relative being treated there.”

“We’re aware of the situation,” Martha said, earnestly troubled. “We’ve been discussing how best to intervene. Simply directing money toward the problem isn’t likely to help.”

“As I said, this concerns a staffing issue,” Gertrude continued. “If you can pull the right strings at city hall, I propose a directorial change as soon as possible. Someone from one of your company’s ventures with the right training and background, perhaps? Doesn’t Wayne Laboratories have a closed facility where some of its best and brightest minds—”

“Pinewood Farms,” Martha cut in, her diction terse. “All three of us know you know it exists.”

“I’d like to vet the candidates,” Gertrude said. “You and Thomas ought to send me a handful of options. Anyone with both medical and psychiatric training would be preferable.”

“That’s a small list. It’s…admirable of the Institute go to such great lengths for an employee.”

“I fear we are not above using connections to accomplish a desired result. We deemed it worth the effort, as both our colleague’s relative and countless other patients will benefit.”

Martha sighed. “I’ll speak to Thomas about pulling some personnel files. Paper or electronic?”

“Normally, my methods are what your son might call old-school,” Gertrude said, “but this is a matter of some urgency. Scans in password-protected PDF format would suffice.”

Forty-eight hours later, Gertrude received an email from Thomas. His pleasantries didn’t seem laced with resentment or reservations, unlike Martha’s cagey demeanor. There were three attachments. At a quick scan through all of them, only one looked promising.

Had Hugo Strange pursued his unconventional career in the UK instead of the US, Gertrude had no doubt she would have secured him for the Institute. After all, the employment he’d taken fresh out of medical school, instead of a traditional residency, was clandestine.

Strange’s annual performance reviews, spanning a decade, revealed an unparalleled meticulousness. Quality control and integrity of results were of great concern to him. He kept records in multiple formats, with a strong preference for audio-visual recording.

One annotation in his hiring paperwork stood out. _Desirable sense of ethics_ , it read.

From what Gertrude knew about the goings-on at Pinewood Farms, as well as from what Martha seemed to wish she didn’t know about it, that could only mean one thing. Strange’s ethics were desirably _questionable_.

 _Strange will suffice_ , Gertrude wrote back. _Do whatever you must to appoint him._

Assuming their candidate took the Arkham opportunity, Gertrude wondered if Elias would require progress reports. Even if not, he would certainly expect Gertrude to keep tabs. She often traveled as it was.

Strange had, at some point in his busy, secretive forty-odd years of life, been touched by the Eye. Of that, Gertrude was reasonably certain. If she was wrong, then he was the sort who could easily be molded.

Thomas wrote back a week later, stating that Strange had seemed delighted— _in his way_ , as Thomas put it—to accept the offer. Barring any complications, he was expected to start in two weeks’ time.

When Gertrude told Elias, his only reaction was to say, “Well, then, you’d better go brief him.”

Funding for travel had never been in short supply, so Gertrude booked the most desirable first-class itinerary available. Heathrow to JFK, and then the puddle jump to Gotham International. She had no great love of New Jersey, so Gotham being located there was inconvenient.

Gertrude spent a week in New York. On the day she arrived, she sent a request to Strange’s administrative assistant, Ethel Peabody, for an appointment. It took several days for Peabody to get back to her with an answer. That was fine by Gertrude, as she had shopping to do and an old flame or two to catch up with. The answer, when it arrived, was _yes_. Gertrude’s credentials had been deemed sufficient.

Booking accommodations in Gotham was tedious, tricky business, as even the nicer options were often located in or bordered on dodgier parts of town. Hotel Belle Monaco was situated across from what looked like a warehouse that had been converted into a block of flats.

On exiting the taxi and approaching the hotel’s entrance, Gertrude paused. She knew the feeling of being watched better than most, and one upward glance told her she wasn’t imagining things. There was someone standing at the large, unshuttered window of one of the flats. Whether the spectacled voyeur was watching Gertrude specifically, or just the hotel’s comings and goings, was unclear.

Just to be safe, Gertrude waved at the stranger. Startled, they turned and vanished from sight.

In spite of Gotham’s cultural offerings, Gertrude spent her first twenty-four hours sleeping and watching the local news channels. Gotham had long been on the Institute’s radar, perhaps for far longer than any of them would care to admit. Various of the Fears had historically treated it like a playground, but none had been as successful as the Dark.

This was worrisome in the grand scheme. There would certainly be a ritual attempt if the Institute didn’t run interference. Keeping the entities busy with territorial squabbles amidst their acolytes, both clueless and aware, seemed worth a shot.

Gertrude had no intention of letting Strange know the full extent of his role. The man did what he wanted for one reason, and one reason alone: to see what would happen. As beholding motivations went, it was bizarrely neutral.

On the other hand, if Strange became an avatar in the process, so much the better. There would finally be someone to give Ra’s, that ancient pain in the arse, a run for his metaphorical money.

Whatever the Court of Owls was up to these days, it clearly wasn’t serving its intended purpose. 

On her second and hopefully last morning in Gotham, Gertrude hailed a cab to Arkham. On impulse, before getting into the back seat, she glanced up at the flat with the spacious window—but no one was there.

Peabody and two guards met Gertrude at Arkham’s forbidding front gates. She offered a hand through the bars. Her painted smile was pleasant, but her eyes, even darker than her skin, were unreadable.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Peabody said as Gertrude shook her hand. “I’ve been advised to ask if you’re sure you’d like to come in.”

“Charmed,” Gertrude said, studying the archaic brick complex. “Of course I’m sure. We have much, much worse where I’m from.”

Peabody shrugged and withdrew a large iron key from her coat pocket. She slotted it into the lock, turned it with a grating _clank_ , and indicated that the guards should open the gates. The dour escort wasn’t entirely unexpected.

On entering the main building, Gertrude was startled by the silence. There was a barred-in area with cafeteria tables that, for the moment, was unoccupied. She wondered how many of the patients were permitted to take their meals there, and how often.

Strange’s office was at the end of a corridor. Peabody opened the unmarked door, ushered Gertrude inside, and closed the door behind her.

Gertrude didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked to the chair before Strange’s desk and sat.

“Tell me, Head Archivist Robinson,” said Strange, his gaze coy behind his rose-tinted glasses, “what business could an occult research institute _possibly_ have with a house of science? There are no ghosts here, I assure you.”

“Ghosts, no,” Gertrude agreed, “but you’d be a fool to assume the absence of paranormal phenomena. I’m here to fill you in on a certain…hypothesis, if you like, and what kind of data you will supply to aid us in our endeavors.”

“Suppose I say no?” Strange asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll be busy enough with bettering my patients’ lives, as well as with my own research.”

“Suppose I tell you the Magnus Institute petitioned the Waynes in order to get you this job,” Gertrude said. “Suppose we decided to rescind it.”

Strange twitched his lips. “I lose nothing by hearing what you have to say. Call it a whim.”

“I’ve spent years studying…let’s call them entities, if you like…that feed on our fears. More than that, they are manifestations thereof.”

“There’s no lack of fear in this place, in spite of our best efforts,” said Strange, implacably calm.

“That’s precisely why you’re here. Not just to improve living conditions and aid those in need of treatment, but also to _observe_.”

“Don’t you mean _interview_?” Strange countered. “I read about your organization. You collect statements from those who believe they’ve experienced something that defies rational explanation. Do you realize that can be applied to the experiences of more than half my patients?”

“What does it matter?” Gertrude said, shrugging. “Whether these stories arise from diseased minds or external sources, it’s still your responsibility to document what your patients disclose.”

“I can’t disagree with your logic. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’d like to hear more about these so-called entities. Are they nebulous, legion, innumerable? Or do they have discrete identities and natures?”

Gertrude tilted her head at him, pleased. “There are fourteen that we know of. Possibly fifteen.”

“I’ve always known fears to be so complex as to defy categorization,” Strange said, goading her. 

“Make no mistake, they are complex,” Gertrude reassured him. “They have overlaps. They share victims and make alliances. By the same token, there are rivalries. They also go to war.”

“Your hypothesis is no different from our primordial insistence on conjuring gods and spirits.”

“There are those who worship them as such. There are devotees, and then there are prophets. Acolytes and avatars. There are even those unwittingly touched, but who nonetheless serve their entity’s cause.”

Strange had grown curiously intent. “Am I to assume that you’ve deemed me one of these?”

“You are the observer, not the observed,” Gertrude explained. “The fear of being watched gave rise to the Ceaseless Watcher. Just call it the Eye, if you like. In your line of work, you have inclinations toward the Corruption, too. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that one.”

Strange had steepled his fingers and was tapping them against his lips. “Your hypothesis intrigues me. Send the full list. In the very least, it might be a useful framework for understanding the experiences of those I seek to cure.”

Somehow, Gertrude doubted that was what he truly sought to do. However, she knew that the point of his research had always been to improve upon nature, to exceed perfection. How successful he was at the latter remained to be seen.

“I’ll send you the list if you agree to share your findings. By findings, I mean transcripts of patients’ stories. Think of it as scientific mutual aid.”

“There’s no science to what you do,” Strange chuckled, “but…very well. We have an accord.”

“One last thing,” Gertrude said, narrowing her eyes. “Are you recording this, young man?”

Strange gave her a strained, but self-satisfied smile. “Of course. What do you take me for?”


	2. The Watcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may remember the interviewee in this chapter from Episode 1x11 of _Gotham_. Given the way I'm altering canon events throughout this crossover, assume that the plot of that episode never happened, which means the interviewee never died.

**Transcript of interview with Dorothy Duncan**  
**15 March 2013 (audio cassette enclosed)**

HS: Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Duncan. Allow me to apologize for taking so long to get to you as I work my way through the staff. It’s been a hectic first month on the job.

DD: Oh, my pleasure, Doctor! And it’s Nurse Duncan. I imagine the news earlier this week hasn’t made things any easier. It must be _awful_ , losing an old colleague like that. We all thought it was charitable of you, leaving your post at Wayne Laboratories to come work here.

HS: Terrible. I’d barely gotten the chance to thank Thomas and Martha for taking my resignation with such grace. Still, it’s far worse for their son.

DD: I can’t imagine what that poor boy must be going through.

HS: I appreciate the compassion you bring to this institution, Ms. Duncan. A lack of it is precisely what led to my predecessor being let go. You’ve been here at least since his tenure, correct?

DD: It’s Nurse Duncan. Well, I started when Dr. Lang did, right after the refurbishment and reopening several months ago. The Waynes wanted to demolish this whole complex and start fresh. I’m glad they didn’t. Two hundred years of history would’ve been gone just like that.

HS: Fascinating. Do you consider yourself a student of local history?

DD: Arkham is endlessly fascinating, don’t you think? I assume so, or you wouldn’t have taken the job. You should’ve seen this place forty years ago. I remember the gates and the outsides of these buildings looked so cheerful. I remember thinking I could make such a difference.

HS: Do you mean when you were still in training? Did you dream of getting placed here, Ms.—

DD: _Nurse_ —

HS: Do you know what’s in this folder?

DD: Of course. It’s my personnel file.

HS: You see, that’s what was odd. When I went looking for your personnel file, I couldn’t find it to save my life. I wondered if perhaps Dr. Lang had misfiled it among the patient records.

DD: Is that where it was?

HS: Unfortunately, yes.

DD: Dr. Lang was an excellent leader, but he wasn’t what you’d call organized.

HS: You can drop the charade, Ms. Duncan. I’d be most interested in hearing your story. How _does_ a patient convince everyone around her that she’s one of the medical staff?

DD: You answered it for yourself. I was always very good at charades.

HS: There’s no need for bitterness. I’m here to help all of you get well.

DD: There are tunnels underneath this place. They go for about a mile, following the river.

HS: They must end at Indian Hill. I wasn’t informed of their existence. Please continue.

DD: When this place shut down a decade ago, no one came for me. My parents had been dead a long time.

HS: Let me guess—you stayed and took refuge in those tunnels. What did you find in them?

DD: Storage, rations, medical supplies, spare equipment. Anything you’d need to survive.

HS: Impressive. I’m not convinced that’s _all_ you found. Whatever it was, it must have permitted you to blend into Dr. Lang’s newly hired staff without arousing any suspicions.

DD: You’ll call me crazy if I tell you. If you read my file, then you know I was in nursing school when they locked me up. I can be useful to you, Dr. Strange. Please let me keep my job.

HS: Let’s not jump to conclusions. As for what I’ll think, let me be the judge of that.

DD: After I felt sure nobody would find me, I went exploring. There weren’t just storage rooms. There was a fallout shelter, kitchen, and places to sleep. There were also offices, or at least they _looked_ like offices. One of them seemed off.

HS: As if a series of tunnels wasn’t enough. What was unusual about this office?

DD: It had a huge console and about twenty television screens built into one wall.

HS: Government facilities have had those since the Cold War.

DD: The screens were _on_ , Dr. Strange.

HS: What did they show you? Static?

DD: Rooms. Hallways. I was confused, but then I realized they were showing me different parts of Arkham. I used them to see if anyone entered any of the buildings. That’s how I kept an eye on everything. How I knew the first day Dr. Lang and his staff were here.

HS: You mentioned feeling confusion. Were you also afraid?

DD: That’s a silly question. You serve it, too, don’t you?

HS: Serve what?

DD: The Watcher.

HS: Can you tell me about this... _watcher_? Was it on the screens? Did it speak?

DD: The Watcher is everywhere. _It Knows You_. No, not on the screens. _In_ them.

HS: That’s enough for today. I’ll think over what you’ve shared for next time.

DD: Next time? But I thought maybe you’d understand and let me stay on as—

HS: I'm afraid it’s in your best interests to complete your treatment. However, I do have one more question. Why did you poison your nursing school classmates when you were sixteen?

DD: For homework. You'd know that if you read my file.

HS: Therapy is vital to recovery. What was the _real_ reason?

DD: To find out what would happen. I just had to _see_.


	3. The Stranger

**Transcript of interview with Jerome Valeska  
7 June 2013 (audio cassette enclosed)**

HS: Hello, Mr. Valeska. I appreciate punctuality. Please have a seat.

JV: Not like I had a choice, given the, uh, escort. What’s up, Doc? 

HS: Very little, if you insist on continuing to make small talk.

JV: Not a fan of _Looney Tunes_ , huh? Fine, I can take a hint.

HS: _Hmmm_. What kind of hint are you implying I gave?

JV: That kinda shit isn’t going to work on me, for the record, but— _fine_. Let’s say you were actually giving me a hint, and that I actually wanted you to take that banal figure of speech as bait. The hint would’ve been that, uh, _well_ …that you’re no fun.

HS: Let’s say that you actually intended for me to take that sentiment as an insult. I’d argue that I’ve known plenty of people who are fond of animation. That didn’t make them _fun_.

JV: Touché, Doc. I heard lotsa stuff about the last guy who ran this place, none of it complimentary. You’re already a huge improvement.

HS: My predecessor’s performance is neither here, nor there. Let’s talk about _your_ idea of fun.

JV: That’s not exactly a question, is it? Isn’t that your job, asking questions till I break down and tell you the _real_ reason I killed Mommy? Actually, that’s a great segue. I killed her because it was fun. Case closed. Can I get back to meeting and greeting the fresh meat in the cafeteria?

HS: That’s not what your intake paperwork tells me, Jerome. 

JV: Whatever Gordon and his goons wrote down, it’s wrong.

HS: This is a judgment free space. Doctor-patient confidentiality counts just as much for these sessions as it does for those who regularly see a therapist of their own free will.

JV: You acknowledge I’m a prisoner. That’s progress. As for confidentiality, I’d have an easier time believing that if you weren’t recording this. I can hear the tape recorder.

HS: Recording sessions with patients is standard protocol. You were informed of that on arrival.

JV: Wasn’t expecting you to be reliant on Dark Ages tech. Isn’t it easier to use an MP3 thingy?

HS: A physical record is preferable to risking files that can be deleted in the blink of an eye.

JV: Nah, Doc. That’s not it. You like how the sound creeps people out. I can respect that.

HS: Irrelevant. Does it creep _you_ out, Jerome?

JV: _Ha_! So you acknowledge that, too, huh?

HS: Most of my patients are ill at ease to begin with. I find that the additional inducement of anxiety makes it much easier for me to calm them. Soothe away their fears.

JV: You make yourself less scary than the fuckin’ situation they’re in, is that what you mean?

HS: Language. Yes, there’s a dimension of that in play. With your professional background, I’m sure you can understand reliance on…tricks of the trade, let’s call them.

JV: _[Uncontrollable laughter lasting nearly a minute]_ I’ve never heard that one. It’s good.

HS: What part of my previous statement struck you as tongue in cheek—or, dare I say it, a joke?

JV: Callin’ circus work professional. You realize I never had a contract, right? Never had a _choice_?

HS: Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you feel trapped by the situation you faced at home?

JV: Oh, let’s see. Abusive mom, check. Abusive boyfriends, check. Abusive uncle, _check_. Before I was old enough to take matters into my own hands, how do you _think_ I felt?

HS: I’m assuming you mean the boyfriends were your mother’s.

JV: Uh, my relationships or lack thereof are none of your business.

HS: Clarity is vital. Fine, so we won’t talk about your relationships. Still, I need to know—

JV: Yeah, I meant my mom’s parade of deadbeat dickheads. Oh, excuse me. _Boyfriends_. Are air quotes okay? Also, do you _really_ think I had any relationships of my own?

HS: I don’t know, Jerome. You just told me you didn’t want to talk about them.

JV: Relationships with family are the only ones I ever had. They all turned on me.

HS: I’m sorry to hear that. What do you think motivated them to do such a thing?

JV: I don’t wanna talk about that, either. Long story short, somebody told lies about me starting from before I even hit double digits age-wise. Everyone believed ’em. Even Mom.

HS: Do you feel like your mother shouldn’t have believed? That she should’ve had your back?

JV: Nah, but she sure had the back of the person who always bad-mouthed me. Story of my life.

HS: Did you kill her because of the abuse, or because she took someone else’s word over yours?

JV: Both. Neither. What the hell does it matter _why_ I killed her? If I’m insane, there’s no why.

HS: I’m not convinced you were insane at a baseline, Jerome. Sociopathic, maybe, except—it’s clear to me you _loved_ your family. At least up until the moment they betrayed you.

JV: There wasn’t just one moment where that happened, Doc. It was an ongoing thing.

HS: There’s a sequence of moments that seem to trouble you more than the rest. Do you think the person who told lies about you had a reason, in their own mind, to tell them?

JV: He was a hypocrite, plain and simple. That’s reason number one.

HS: _He_? Was it your uncle? And there was more than one reason?

JV: No, it wasn’t my uncle. Reason number two is—look, he just wanted to get out.

HS: Wanted to get out of _what_ , exactly? How would lying about you accomplish that?

JV: Everybody except those uppity Graysons—pun intended, I’ll be here all night—wanted to get out of Haly’s at some point or another. Or at least dreamed about it. _Schemed_ about it.

HS: Let’s forget about my second question for now. When you said he just wanted to get out, it sounded like you don’t even blame him.

JV: I blame him for the lies. But for the wanting to get out? Can’t bring myself to.

HS: We’re almost out of time, but let’s end this exercise with something productive.

JV: Jeez, Doc. Here I thought it already was productive. We were gettin’ somewhere!

HS: I agree. We are. What would you say to this person if you ever saw him again?

JV: _[Roughly five minutes of silence, punctuated by a single muffled sniff]_

HS: Let’s make this easier. If you don’t know what you’d say, what would you _do_?

JV: I dunno. Maybe hug him to death if it wouldn’t be too much like killin’ myself.

HS: One last question for today. Figuratively, you see too much of yourself in him?

JV: Who said anything about figuratively? _[Guards knock]_ See ya next time, Doc.


End file.
